The Water Fight

Yogi Bear's Jellystone Park Campground
Woodstock, New Brunswick, Canada
Saturday, August 2, 2008


What do you do with 8 little boys in a campground on a rainy Saturday morning? You have a water fight.

Just across the way from us on Boo-Boo Boulevard, there are four pop-up campers side by side, each with at least two little boys, one dog and some little girls, although they remain inside, peeking through the mesh windows.

It has rained over night, torrents and torrents, and it is still sprinkling. There are puddles everywhere, but the well-tended asphalt road is relatively clear, and the soldiers are waiting patiently while their weapons are filled at the pump.

The equipment is amazing. I spot at least six different water bazookas, a couple of pistols, two plastic buckets and some kind of water container that is so heavy the big kid holding it can hardly move.

They stand in a circle in the street, guns at the ready. The Dad, a big guy in a black T-shirt, signals the beginning of the battle. Everybody shoots. Most of them miss. They’re running around, squealing with happiness and it seems, trying to be shot more than shoot someone else.

The battle rages for well over an hour. Dad is the General, the teacher, and the filler-upper. He’s indefatigable. He has filled everybody’s water gun at least seven times in all the time I’ve been watching, and he doesn’t sit on the sidelines, either. He’s right in there with the crew, evening out the odds for the little guys and taking some shots in the back too. “Not me, not me,” he yells in mock consternation as the kids shriek with laughter.

The dog, a big yellow Lab, barks nonstop and nobody seems to mind. People from the other side of the park come to watch, and some have their own water guns, inspired to join by the sheer good nature of the fight.

I notice Dad switching the kids’ guns. Everybody gets a turn with a bazooka, even the littlest ones, who can barely hold the things, much less shoot them.

“Everybody get the big guy,” yells Dad, and they all take off after another Dad who gives them a good chase and finally allows them to soak him.

A park ranger, remember this is Jellystone Park Campground, comes by on her golf cart, and Dad takes no prisoners. “Everybody get the ranger,” he cries, and she drives off soaked to the skin, laughing. I wonder if she’s done this before.

The littlest guy in the group is now a good 150 feet from the fray, still running down the road, and every so often, turning to shoot his tiny pistol. I don’t think he realizes that nobody knows he’s gone. I hope he won’t run too far. Then I see another camper step forward, gently turn him around and head him towards home.

Eventually everybody gets tired, and they stand in a circle around Dad, who ritually douses each kid with a bucketful of water, so that nobody goes home less than drenched. It’s proof that each child had a hell of a time on a day that could have been a dog, a drag and a downer.

Instead, it’s been a great morning. And as fun as it has been, there have been good lessons taught here, about having healthy fun, about sharing, about picking on somebody your own size, about when to back off, and about how to parent like a champion. I’d like to clone this guy.
Betty